Umbrella
by SirienneHolmes
Summary: Now that it's raining more than ever, know that we'll still have each other. You can stand under my umbrella, you can stand under my umbrella. Could be seen as friendship or early Johnlock. T for description of injuries.


**Umbrella**

_Kind of based on the song…You love me, right?_

Sherlock had been gone a long time. And John was worried.

He hadn't lived with Sherlock long enough to know when an absence was "too long," after what stretch of time he should begin to worry. For all his genius, Sherlock was a child in a man's body. Though he focused intently during a case, at the other times, he barely took care of himself. He relied on John to do domestic things, perhaps unconsciously. Whatever the reason, Sherlock was…what was the word?

Dependent. Sherlock was dependent on John, like a soldier is to his commanding officer. Though Sherlock pretended control, he _needed_ John. There was a part of him that needed John to tell him to do things.

And John was just as dependent on Sherlock, though for different reasons. Sherlock had a sense of adventure with him. Even when he was bored, his unpredictability was an adventure. And danger, oh, Sherlock _reeked_ of danger. If danger had a smell, John thought, it would definitely smell a lot like Sherlock. Of burnt hair, tea, cigarettes (an old stink; Sherlock had successfully quit them), maybe even cocaine, sometimes coffee, and the sharp smell of his shampoo. Yes, that was the smell of danger. It nestled nicely beside the sound of guns and shouting, both in English and Afghani, the smell of gunpowder and sand.

As John didn't have a frame of reference for worrying about Sherlock, he worried all the time he was away from him, thinking about the times when he'd left Sherlock alone and what had happened. He had an almost obsessive need to watch over and protect his flatmate, and Sherlock returned the favor. In his own way.

Sherlock had told John that he was going undercover, and that he would be staying with some friends from the Homeless Network. Why he felt he needed to go undercover, he wouldn't say, and John didn't ask more than once. If Sherlock felt he needed to do this, there must be a very good reason.

Of course, it made John feel no better, but there you are. So the weeks went by and John worried. He worried that his flatmate was not okay, wasn't eating, wasn't getting enough clean water to drink, was sick, was shot, was dying. It was enough to keep John from sleep.

One night, after half a week of severe thunderstorms, a heavy rain began to fall. London life almost came to a standstill. Very few people braved the storm at any time other than to go to work. Cafés were filled to the brim with people trying to get out of the rain and taxis filled London traffic more than usual. The heavy rain went on, and John still had no sign of Sherlock.

It had almost been a month since he'd seen him. John was more worried than ever for his friend, the childish consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

Late in the last week of the month, John was sleepless. He took out a large black umbrella and decided to walk the deserted streets of London to tire himself out. He wasn't far from Baker Street when he heard something in the grating down below the city. John knew that in the sewers, Sherlock's Homeless Network thrived without being seen or heard. He decided to ignore it; probably one of Sherlock's agents out on a nightly prowl. He was almost to the end of Baker Street when the grating over one of the storm drains behind him broke. He could hear the rusted metal falling down into the sewers below. He turned around, glad to have brought his gun, feeling for it and then pulling it out, holding it steadily in one hand, the umbrella in the other.

A lithe figure climbed up out of the storm drain, John's gun still trained on it. When the figure reached full height, John would've recognized the face—dirty as it was—anywhere. "Sherlock," John breathed, lowering his gun.

The taller man, a few years younger than he, nodded and coughed hoarsely. His step was like that of a newborn foal; unsteady, and he looked pale and thin, even wrapped in his great coat. He managed to get away from the storm drain with some difficulty and smiled, turning his face skywards. The torrent of rainwater falling from the sky cleaned off his face a little, and he looked John in the eyes once again, wobbling as he tried to keep steady. "Hi, John," his voice was froggy, perhaps from disuse, his usually well-styled hair a wet mop on his head.

John walked forward, lifted the umbrella up a little so that Sherlock could come under. The consulting detective took the umbrella so as to hold it for both of them, it being more convenient for him than John because of his height. He looked down at John , smiling again weakly. John saw the dark circles under his friend's eyes, the cheekbones stark and exposed on his face. John stole a glance at the gloveless hands and saw that the skin had receded and bones were nearly visible, even accounting for his firm grip on the umbrella. Every inch of Sherlock looked unwell; John could tell even beneath the coat that Sherlock had been poorly nourished, and Sherlock coughed again into his sleeve, stumbling from the force of it.

John caught him. "Whoa, whoa, steady now, Sherlock." He soothed. Sherlock nodded, blinking rapidly and swallowing.

"John," he whispered, and John had to concentrate hard to hear him over the rain. It was probably the quietest Sherlock had ever been in his life. "I'm so sorry I was gone for so long, but I had to stay away." He coughed and John drew closer to steady him, should he fall. "One of my own was bribed. He attacked me, left me for dead," Sherlock coughed and gripped his midsection with a free hand. "Wasn't a deep wound. Was just supposed to bleed out. Didn't. I was afraid to return home until I was sure he was dead, too."

"You got him." It wasn't a question.

Sherlock chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "No. A bus did. But I watched."

"How long ago was this?"

Sherlock scrunched up his face as he thought. "Around teatime. I started to go home after it happened, but I was too tired."

"So when you saw me…" John was putting the pieces together.

Sherlock nodded. "Yeah. Tried to get your attention, but it didn't work, so I followed you a bit. Used most of my strength to break that," he admitted, suddenly becoming heavier as he leaned against John's shoulder. "Can barely stand now."

John was amazed as usual by the feats of the great consulting detective, but his doctor mode quickly took over. Sherlock's clothes were soaked though. He was shaking with malnourishment and sick to boot. He needed warmth and tea and rest. "Can you walk a little if I support you?" He asked. "It's not far to the flat."

Sherlock nodded and allowed John to put a strong arm around his waist, steering him back towards the flat. Sherlock obediently held the umbrella, trying to stay awake. John walked slowly, and talked whenever Sherlock got slow to keep him awake and on his feet. "C'mon, Sherlock. Ten more steps. Let's go. C'mon, we're almost there."

When they got back to the flat, John took the umbrella from Sherlock and went about putting it down. No longer being supported, Sherlock lay against the side of the building, panting like he'd just ran a marathon. John opened the flat and supported Sherlock again.

The steps were hard, and Sherlock was getting weaker and weaker by the second. It took twice as long to mount the stairs than it should have, but John was patient and forgiving, while Sherlock apologized every few steps.

"Just lift your foot—" Sherlock almost tripped, "no, a little _higher_. There we go. Just three more steps! Sherlock, you've got to hold yourself a bit—"

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, just keep moving."

"Sorry."

"It's okay, Sherlock. Lift your foot, one after the other…there. One more and we're home."

Once they had gotten to the final step and John had opened the door, Sherlock fell to his knees, and then on all fours, and then, crawling a little so he was out of the way, all his strength caved, and he fell into a little curled up ball in the middle of the floor. John sighed, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. He was more worried than anything, but he was anxious to actually care for Sherlock. He knelt down beside Sherlock and gently tried to take his coat off.

Sherlock hissed in pain. "Ouch,"

"Sorry." John sighed, giving up. Sherlock was in too weird of a position for John to take his coat off without hurting him. He sat back on his heels. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Can you get up at all?"

Sherlock tried, got as far as his knees and couldn't get farther. He was puffing and he looked paler still from the effort. "That'll do," John soothed, gently taking Sherlock's wet coat off. He felt the suit jacket underneath—damp too, as he'd suspected—and took that off as well. Sherlock's pants and the shirt were damp, too, but John hesitated with those. Sherlock put a hand on John's shoulder to steady himself, and then sighed into his ear, "if you can get me pants and a shirt, I think I can put the pants on without help. I'll be too weak to do the shirt by myself, though."

John thought that this was eerily considerate of Sherlock, considering this was the same man who couldn't fish his own mobile from his coat pocket. John nodded. "Okay, I'll go fetch you some dry clothes."

John went into Sherlock's room, and decided that he should pull out Sherlock's pajamas. The elastic waistband should be easier for Sherlock to pull on, and more comfortable besides. John also fetched Sherlock's pajama top and his silk robe. When he returned, Sherlock, on his back now, had already unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. John noted with a detached horror that they were loose on him. He gave Sherlock the clothes and went into the other room to make tea. He didn't dare come back, until Sherlock's weak call summoned him. "John?"

John returned to find Sherlock in his pajama pants. He'd gotten halfway with his dress shirt, and needed help. John gently unbuttoned the wet shirt and sat Sherlock up so he could properly help the man take it off. Sherlock was no longer supporting the majority of his weight, so despite the stone or so he'd lost, he was heavy in John's hands. John didn't mind—he'd supported heavier men in his day and had the muscles to prove it—but it did worry him that Sherlock's long, thin body was so much like a ragdoll.

That's why he gasped when he saw the slash wound across Sherlock's ribs. The genius had been right: the wound wasn't meant to be fatal, and it wouldn't have bled out either. Whoever had bribed the homeless man to kill Sherlock had put his trust in the wrong man for the job, and John was glad of it. He went into the kitchen and returned with a first aid kit. He cleaned and bandaged the wound, and looked hard at Sherlock's pale chest.

Sherlock's breathing was soft and even, his eyes glazed over with malnutrition, but thankfully watching John intently. Good. Sherlock wasn't in any danger of starving to death, then. John gave the man some water in little sips as he assessed the damage.

Sherlock was very thin, and bone was exposed at every turn. His pajama pants lay flat, so that John could see Sherlock's briefs. He shuddered. Sherlock had lost about a stone, maybe a little more. Thank God he kept holding on, though.

The water was gone, and Sherlock sighed weakly, his voice already sounding more robust. John was about to help him sit so he could put his shirt on when the poor man's beleaguered stomach rumbled fiercely like a broken engine. Sherlock arched his back and moaned. "John," he whimpered (although it came out more like: "_Joooooohhhnnn_"). "John. I'm starving," he gasped.

"I know," John chuckled, "I can hear." Sherlock smiled faintly, and then shivered with cold. "C'mon, let's get your shirt on. There we go," John helped Sherlock with his shirt and slipped his robs on as well. Then, he helped him to his chair. "Right, then. How about some nice, warm soup?"

Sherlock wet his lips in response and his stomach growled, eliciting another moan from the starved detective.

John went into the kitchen to make soup and while it was boiling, he gave Sherlock a cup of tea. Sherlock drank it down like a remedy and sighed deeply. John figured that the warmth felt good to a body as cold as Sherlock's. John had seen the flush of a fever beginning, possibly from exposure, and knew from experience that a dose of chicken noodle soup would do just fine.

When the soup was made, he poured it into a mug and gave it to Sherlock. He sat across from him, watching as Sherlock sniffed it.

The consulting detective was detecting as much as his tired mind would allow. He was absorbing the data about the feelings that the soup's delectable smell sent through his body and the messages in his brain. He smelled again, feeling a shiver go down his spine. His stomach grumbled in anticipation and his head swam. He took a long drink, and immediately felt his body evening out. There was warmth in his stomach, his throat was soothed, his fever contented by a warm flush, his cough silenced, the trembling in his limbs a bit less. He felt strength ready to return to him, and he gulped down the rest of the soup as quickly as his body allowed. John gave him mugful after mugful until the pot was gone.

Sherlock blinked sleepily at his flatmate. John smiled. "Feeling better, Sherlock?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied, stifling a yawn. "Thank you, John."

John nodded and yawned, too. He was just as tired as Sherlock was. Maybe even more. "Do you need help getting to bed?" He asked.

Sherlock shrugged, tried to stand. Things were better, but he still felt dizzy and wobbled a bit. John helped him to his room and pulled the blankets around him. "Here," John handed Sherlock his phone. "Your voice is still pretty hoarse, so you can text me or call me if you need me. I'll leave my phone on."

"Thank you," Sherlock smiled gratefully, hoping that between his words and his face that he was expressing immense gratitude.

John seemed to get the message and smiled in response. "You're welcome. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Sherlock replied as John shut the light out and closed the door. The consulting detective waited until he heard John go upstairs and into his bedroom before he let himself sleep, wondering how he'd ever deserved a friend like John Watson.

Meanwhile, upstairs and already asleep, John wondered what he'd ever done to deserve a friend like Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
